


Fifty Shades of Truth

by starcrossedgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bring Back the Bastard Challenge, Darkfic, M/M, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcrossedgirl/pseuds/starcrossedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What’s white is black, what’s black is white. All shadows are a trick of the light. Right?</p><p>For warnings, please see notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifty Shades of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Bring Back the Bastard Challenge.
> 
> **Warnings (highlight to view):**
> 
> mindfuck, implied BDSM, abusive relationship, gaslighting, disturbing themes
> 
> Despite the title, this fic bears no resemblance whatsoever to the ~~fanfiction~~ books of E.L. James. Huge thanks as always to [](http://abrae.dreamwidth.org/profile)[ **abrae**](http://abrae.dreamwidth.org) for a stellar beta and incredibly useful feedback! 

He’s browsing the shelves of Flourish & Blotts in search of a birthday present for Severus when disaster strikes. Or, more like, jabs his side in the pointed form of an elbow. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you th—Harry!”

His fingers clench tightly around “99 Alchemical Almanacs” at the sound of her voice, still so familiar though he’s not heard it in months. Fight, flight or freeze? The last one’s too ridiculous to even contemplate, and he’s boxed into a narrow alcove, making escape difficult. The clinking of galleons and murmur of voices from downstairs remind him that he’s also in a public place, and the last thing he needs is to cause a scene. Besides, she did stick by him through thick and thin not so long ago. Might as well be civil. 

He reshelves the book and turns. “Hermione,” he says, curving his lips into one of those smiles he’s been practising of late. 

Clearly he’s become better at them—damn Severus for always being right!—because she flings her arms around him instantly. He stiffens beneath the touch, and she lets go just as quickly. 

“Sorry,” she says, tucking a curl of errant hair behind her ear as she withdraws. “I didn’t mean— It’s just so good to see you’re well. I mean, to see you. I’ve missed you. We’ve missed you.”

“Right,” Harry says, and tries to ignore the wistful wish that things could be different. After all, this was hardly his choice. 

Hermione’s way worse at this fake smiling thing than Harry, apparently. “So you are doing well, then?”

“Any particular reason why I wouldn’t be?” Harry says, more sharply than he’d intended. 

This has better not turn into a bloody scene. 

“Of course not! It’s just that nobody seems to have seen you of late. I dropped by Andromeda’s the other day, and she said it had been a while since you visited Teddy, and I know how you feel about him, so I... well I worried.” She ducks her head on a laugh. “As I do.”

The pang of guilt is enough to throw Harry off-balance. “You needn’t have. But yeah, I’ve kind of let the ball drop on that one, I need to get back in touch. I have been good,” he asserts. “Really, really good, actually. But also really busy with work.”

“Oh God, tell me about it.” This time, the smile is genuine, if still tentative. “I’d give you all the details, but obviously I can’t, what with the sworn secrecy statutes. Let’s just say I’m really glad that Ron’s been finding his feet in the Aurory so quickly, because if he wasn’t around to deal with the cooking, I’d probably be eating take-out most nights.”

Harry opens his mouth to say that Severus does most of the cooking as well—and promptly shuts it again. 

Hermione remains oblivious. “What do you say we—oh hey, Ron, over here! Look who I’ve found!”

Harry fights the urge to squirm as Ron walks over to them, surprise plain on his face. Impossibly, he seems to have shot up another few inches in height since Harry last saw him. The only change he can see in Hermione is the way she wears her hair, bushy locks trapped in a tight knot at the base of her neck. It makes her look older. Professional. Mature. 

“Hey mate,” says Ron.

 _I’m not your mate_ , Harry thinks, even as his lips shape into a “Hi.” 

“I was just going to suggest to Harry,” Hermione says before an awkward silence can fall, “that maybe we could go somewhere quiet to sit down and chat? It’s been so long since we’ve had time to catch up.”

Ron nods his assent, as though time has indeed been the only driving factor in their separation. Harry’s not sure he’s ever seen him this quiet before, and something about it jars. 

“I’m not sure—”

“Oh please, Harry,” Hermione says, grabbing his hand. There’s an edge of desperation to her voice, echoed inside her grip for the fraction of a second she holds on before letting go. “We won’t nag you about things you don’t want to talk about, promise. Or say something we know will upset you. Right, Ron?”

“Sure,” Ron says so quickly that Harry can’t help but think he’s been prepped. 

Harry’s torn. It’s curiously tempting to slide back into their old patterns of friendship, but he’s nowhere near letting everything that has happened be water under the bridge. He sure as shit doesn’t want to play nice if they’re just going to brush everything under the carpet and pretend it’s not there. And yet—what if Ron _has_ been prepped, what if this is a sign that they’ve come around, that they’ve thought through their behaviour and realised how fucked up it was? What if they actually want to apologise but would rather not do it in a busy bookstore, precisely because they realise the gravity of their past accusations?

A part of him wants to trust them. No matter how much they’ve hurt him, they were his best friends once.

He’s saved from having to make a decision by a sweep of black robes edging into his peripheral vision. He startles, then relaxes; ridiculous how, after months of living together, he still hasn’t got the knack of hearing Severus approach. 

“Ah, Harry, there you are,” Severus says, stopping beside him with a smile. “I was wondering where you had got to. Mister Weasley, Miss Granger,”—a nod—“What an unexpected pleasure.”

And it doesn’t take a genius, takes only one look at them for Harry to know the truth: nothing has changed. Hermione’s expression freezes over like a shallow pond in winter, strangling the life from every last fish with its ice. Ron’s eyes blaze with heat as if in poignant contrast; his hands clench at his sides. 

Harry’s follow suit. 

“Professor,” Hermione says, around a tight-lipped smile. 

“Please—I’ve not been a teacher in quite a while. Do call me Severus.”

He sounds calm and collected as ever, but Harry knows him well enough to pick up on the tell-tale signs of underlying anxiety: the faint brush of his hand against Harry’s, as though Severus wants to grasp it to anchor himself, but is restraining the urge. When Harry unclenches his fist to thread his fingers through Severus’s, he receives a grateful press in return. 

“Of course,” Hermione says. “How silly of me to forget—what is it again you do these days?”

“I craft spells and create experimental potions.”

“Convenient if one doesn’t have to work for a living, isn’t it?” Ron says.

Severus’s fingers tremble against Harry’s palm. “If you are referring to the fact that Harry is kindly—”

“He didn’t ask for it, you know,” Harry cuts in. “I offered. It was my idea.”

“And I shall remain forever grateful.”

“Ignore Ron,” Hermione says, full of false, bright cheer. “I think he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning; he’s been grouchy all day. I’m sorry if he’s offended you.”

“Not at all,” Severus says, and the sheer sincerity in his voice robs Harry of the breath to interject that, actually, yes, he’s really fucking offended. Can he not tell how blatantly she’s lying? “I realise,” Severus continues, “that we didn’t get off to the best start. Perhaps if you and Mr Weasley were to join us for dinner, we could discuss any... concerns you may have and put them behind us?”

Hermione opens her mouth, then pauses, eyes narrowing a fraction. “Actually, we’d hoped that we might catch Harry alone.” There’s a lilting quality to her words, almost as though she is testing something. “Just because...”

“But of course,” Severus says. “I never intended to cut into your reunion. Perhaps another time. If the three of you would prefer some privacy for now to reconnect, that is more than fine. So long as,”—he looks down at Harry—“you want that?”

Harry doesn’t. He’s had about as fucking much as he can take. 

“Thanks, but no thanks. I seem to have lost my appetite.” He glares at Ron. “Rather go straight home, if it’s all the same to you.”

He’s already turning, but he still catches Ron glaring back—at Severus, instead of him. “You must think you’re so fucking clever,” Ron snaps. “Making him do it so you don’t have to.”

Severus stares at him blankly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And I,” Harry says, whirling back, “will rearrange your fucking gob if you don’t shut up right this second.” Screw not making a scene; some things are more important than bad publicity. “One more word, and I swear—”

“Shh,” Severus says, tugging gently on his hand even as Hermione clamps her own over Ron’s mouth. “You’re very upset. Come, let’s go home.”

Hermione’s eyes track them as they move past her. There’s something raw in her gaze, like skin peeled back to reveal the blanched white of bones. 

Harry doesn’t care. 

—-

“I can’t fucking believe them!” Harry says, as soon as the door to their home has closed behind him. “How dare they? How fucking dare they?”

“I’m hungry,” Severus says, and walks over to the cooling cupboard. “Would you like to eat something?”

“And how can you stay so calm when they treat you like this? Like you’re just dirt under their shoes, like you’re no better than a piece of shit? How can you be _nice_ to them?”

Severus shrugs. “I believe in second chances. I’ve done my fair share of unforgivable things.”

Harry’s heart clenches. To look at Severus pull steak and potatoes from the cupboard with sure, deft movements, to see the precise flicks of his wand, peeling the skin off them and sending them dancing into a pot on a low boil—it would be easy to assume that Ron’s harsh words have simply rolled off him without impact. Yet, Harry knows better, knows that beneath the control lies an ocean of bewilderment and hurt feelings, more than enough to rival the one Harry carries inside him most days. 

“But that’s the whole problem!” he says, still seething with anger. “You took that chance—you faced up to the mistakes you made and then you did everything in your power to make up for them! You risked your life, time and again; you fought for what you knew was right. If it hadn’t been for you, we’d never have won the war! You nearly died doing so, and now that you’ve finally, finally got the chance to have a good life, they just decide you don’t deserve it? It’s not bloody fair!” He takes a deep breath and then shakes his head on a laugh. “I can’t believe I almost gave them the benefit of the doubt.”

Severus glances up from where he’s chopping the onions. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and slumps down on the sofa. The yelling’s released the pent-up energy coursing through his veins, but now he’s done he feels drained and weary, exhausted. “Can you believe it? They were being so nice to me that I reckoned maybe they’d thought things through and wanted to apologise. That they were ready to see how good you are to me. How we fit.” He thumps a pillow half-heartedly. “Turns out, not so much.”

Severus regards him silently for a long moment, then pushes away the chopping board.

“I wouldn’t have minded if you’d wanted to spend time with them regardless, you know,” he says, walking over and sinking down beside Harry. “They are your best friends. I would never ask you to choose between us.”

“ _Were_ ,” Harry says. He cups Severus’s jaw, trailing thumb over cheekbone as he gazes into his eyes. “I’ve already made my choice. You know that.”

Severus glances down. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“Well, that’s hardly your fault. Don’t you dare guilt-trip yourself for this.”

Severus sighs. “I’m not. I just can’t help but feel... responsible for the rift between you.”

“Severus, look at me.” Gazing into fathomless black eyes, Harry can almost imagine the pain hiding behind them. “ _They_ were the ones trying to tell me how to live my life. _You_ had every right to be upset; I would have been, too, if I’d been you. Hell, I was.”

“I should be used to people not liking me, by now. I am used to it, really.”

“Yeah, right,” Harry says, running his fingers through Severus’s hair. “I don’t think anyone ever gets fully used to that. Anyway, did you once ask me to break off contact with them because of it?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go. That’s why I chose you.”

And Severus looks at him, then, looks at him like Harry is the only thing in the world, like Severus is ravenous, thirsting. He bends down and takes Harry’s lips, and it’s hot and all-consuming as always, so deep that Harry loses himself somewhere in the space of a kiss. 

“Dinner?” Severus mouths against his neck when they catch their breaths long minutes later. 

Harry laughs and withdraws. “You weren’t joking about being hungry earlier, were you?”

“I never joke,” Severus says, his face dead serious. 

“Ha ha. Come on, I’ll make the salad. I’d offer to do the steaks, but I’ll just end up overcooking yours again.” He makes a face. “I don’t get how you can enjoy it like that.”

“Blue steak is a vast improvement on the leather you choose to eat. You should try it. So much more... tender and juicy.”

“You’re weird,” Harry says, and as Severus’s lips curve in a slow smile he forgets all about Ron and Hermione. 

He’s happy. 

—-

The following day at work, he can’t seem to concentrate. Perhaps it’s because the paperwork is dull and boring as ever, his office cramped and sterile. The only personal touch he ever bothered with is the sole photograph of Severus before him, watching him as he works. He should probably make more of an effort with the room, given how much time he spends here, but it’s always felt pointless at best, knowing that no amount of pictures or freshly-cut flowers could bring it even close to matching up to home. 

Harry loves their home. It’s his haven, his sanctuary amidst acres of undisturbed wild countryside. It’s Unplottable, Imperturbable and off the Floo network, and, no matter what Ron and Hermione might say if they knew that was Severus’s idea, Harry likes it that way. He leapt at the suggestion, in fact, and he’s not regretted it since; whenever he steps past the threshold he breathes a little lighter, finally safe from the prying eyes of the newspapers and public alike. 

It’s not the kind of place he ever imagined he’d live in, quite the contrary. When he decided—fairly soon after leaving Hogwarts—that he’d had enough of Grimmauld Place and the memories which came with it, he rather expected to find a nice cottage somewhere, something cozy, someplace quiet. Then he set foot in the converted chapel for the first time and fell head over heels: with the high, vaulted ceilings and expansive living space, with the beautiful stained glass windows and the master bedroom on the mezzanine, shielded by magical brickwork so smoothly designed it doesn’t look new at all. It even has its own little turret which they’ve turned into a study, books stretching skywards on the leaping walls of the small, circular room. 

From the moment he saw it, all thoughts of cottages were forgotten. Sometimes Harry wonders if he loves it so much because it reminds him of Hogwarts and its cavernous hallways and wide-open classrooms, that he’s missed that soft echoing of his voice he never knew at Privet Drive. Why Severus likes it, he’s less sure; maybe the brightness appeals, after so many years living underground. Even though he still conducts his potions research in the cellar—which used to be a crypt and is the only room Harry isn’t quite so keen on—he doesn’t lock himself up there during the daytime, choosing to do the majority of his work late at night. Now that he’s no longer tied to a teaching schedule Severus prefers to sleep in whenever possible. Harry can still see how he left him this morning, splayed atop their queen size bed, haloed by the first rays of sunshine breaking through the ornate window above it. 

God, Harry wishes he was at home right now. Severus will long since have got up, but Harry could drag him back to bed, throw off the covers to watch the kaleidoscope of colours shifting over his body and follow them with his fingers, his mouth...

Perhaps that’s why he keeps getting distracted from work. Or perhaps it’s those darker thoughts his mind keeps sliding back to against his will, as though seeing Ron and Hermione has shaken loose all the memories he’s fought so hard to suppress. 

It never got off to an auspicious start. He remembers it vividly, the day that he broke the news about his and Severus’s relationship. How he spoke to Hermione alone in the hopes that she might be able to talk Ron around, if necessary. 

“Oh,” she said, her face near-comically frozen. And then, after a long silence—“Isn’t that a bit... odd? I mean, what with... him and your mum?”

So of course Harry explained: about how it had been a misunderstanding on his part, about how Severus had loved Lily but never been _in love_ with her—that even if she hadn’t been the wrong gender, she’d always been too close to a sister. He laughed at his own romantically skewed vision, and Severus’s disgruntled embarrassment at being hailed a Byronic hero in front of Death Eaters and the Order alike. 

Hermione didn’t laugh along, like he wanted her to. “I’m sorry,” she said, after a while, “it’s just a lot to take in. It all seems so fast. He’s barely out of the hospital. But you’re happy?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Harry said, willing her to believe it. 

“Well, then,”—and she smiled, finally, and hugged him tightly—“I’m happy for you.”

Harry was so relieved he decided to forget all about the disastrous start. 

Mistake. _So fast, too fast_ , quickly became the refrain. _Too intense, too much too soon; you seem to be spending all your time together._ (Wasn’t that what new couples do?) _Are you sure it’s wise to have him move in with you already?_ (Severus needed a place. Few would rent to an ex-Death Eater, and who was Harry to deny him a roof over his head?) _We miss hanging out, just the three of us, like we used to._ (As if he hadn’t already become the third wheel the moment _they_ got together.) 

On the surface, they were civil, so Harry ignored the undercurrents as best as he could. For peace. For friendship. Because he loved them. 

He was so set on ignoring them that, even though he couldn’t fail to pick up on the tension growing inside Severus, he didn’t question him, didn’t search for the causes. So set that he let Severus get away with saying, “It’s nothing,” the first few times he opted out of a gathering which included Ron and Hermione, and Harry asked why. 

Until the night that he spun away from Harry so quickly whilst saying it that Harry’s conscience just couldn’t bear it any longer. 

He remembers this, too: the tight set of Severus’s shoulders, the hard line of his back, turned to him. How much it hurt, when he slipped away from Harry’s hand to perch on the bed. 

“No, please, it’s fine. Really.”

“It’s obviously not. _Something_ ’s upset you. It’s Ron and Hermione, isn’t it?”

Silence. 

“Did they... what did they say to you?”

“Nothing.” Severus shook his head. “They have been perfectly pleasant to me. I’m probably... misinterpreting matters. Imagining something that isn’t there.”

“No,” Harry said, suspicion coiling into something tighter in his guts. “I don’t think you are.”

Severus sighed. He looked lost, head turned towards the window, a pale sliver of moonlight illuminating what little Harry could see of his face. “I wouldn’t want to put you in an awkward position.”

“That’s kind of my choice, isn’t it?” He walked over, sitting down on the bed beside Severus. “Please tell me. I’m worried.”

“It’s mostly little things. The way they look at me, sometimes. Barbed comments, when you’re out of the room. Enough so to make me... uncomfortable.” 

“And?”

“I don’t—”

“You said mostly. So there’s more.”

Severus buried his face in his hands, but Harry didn’t need to see it to know instinctively that the gesture spoke of a desperate attempt not to cry. The long, shuddering exhale told him enough. 

His fingers clenched around the sheets. 

“I overheard them,”—muffled by skin—“the other week. I didn’t mean to; it was an accident. Ron said...”

Breathe, Harry needed to breathe. “Yes?”

Another deep, shaky breath, then, softly—“‘Wish he’d never survived.’”

“He said _what_?”

“I may have misheard. Must have misheard.”

“Right, because that’s the kind of thing you—I don’t belie—” A thought, quick as wildfire, and Harry clung to it like a lifeline. “Could he have been talking about someone else? What did Hermione say?”

“‘Easier on Harry than when he finally decides to leave him.’”

For a long, suspended second, Harry felt frozen in time. In the next, he was already on his feet, every part of him lit up with incandescent rage. “That’s it. I’m going over there right now, and I’m—”

But Severus grabbed him as he turned, eyes wide with panic. “No, don’t. Please don’t. I never—”

“I’m not going to let them get away with this! As if it isn’t enough that they expect me— _expect me!_ —to leave you, now they think it’s okay to wish you dead, too? Fuck that! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t walk over there and tear them a new one, because, frankly, I’m all out!”

Severus stared at him unblinking, his nails digging crescent moons into the skin of Harry’s wrist. “Because they’d know. They’d know that it’s... affected me, and I couldn’t... Please, you can’t do that to me. I couldn’t bear it, to have them aware that they hold such... power over me.” 

And Harry wavered, because for all that Severus hadn’t let on about Ron and Hermione before, for all that he rarely spoke about his feelings in their day-to-day life, _this_ they had talked about. The helplessness at having your life controlled by Voldemort and, later, Dumbledore; the sweet freedom of finally being able to make your own choices now it was over—Harry knew it intimately. It had been what brought them together so quickly and tightly, a connection forged during those visits to St Mungo’s when Severus had listened to his confusion, his anger and sadness, his joy, and Harry had known, for the first time in his life, what it was like to be truly understood. 

He sank down on the bed with a heavy sigh. 

"Thank you,” Severus said. 

"It doesn’t feel right,” Harry said. “I mean, how the hell am I supposed to ever look them in the eye again, knowing that _that’s_ how they really feel about you?” 

“It was a private conversation. I’m certain they never intended for me to overhear it.” 

"That doesn’t make it any better.” 

“They may not have meant it. We all say things in the heat of the moment that we later... regret. I’m sure you had a few choice words to say about me, not too long ago.” 

“But that was different! I didn’t know you then. And I know we’re still pretty recent, but...” 

“They may simply need time to adjust. Ron’s never liked me, after all, so it must have been a bit of a shock.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Maybe.” He rubbed his eyes, then shook his head. “And there you go, comforting me again when I am the one who should be comforting you.” 

“I’m fine, honestly. It has helped, knowing that you... believe me.” 

“Of course I do! Why on earth wouldn’t I?” 

Despite Severus’s repeated reassurances that he didn’t mind Harry giving Ron and Hermione another chance, Harry began avoiding them, too, from that point onwards. He still saw them at bigger gatherings and tried to be friendly, but even then it was hard not to look for those less-than-friendly glances they stole at Severus when they thought nobody was watching. With each one he witnessed, Harry felt more betrayed. 

And then the tipping point came, as it had to. True to form, it happened on the very day that Harry told everyone about their plans to buy the chapel and convert the cellar into a working space for Severus. 

He felt edgy from the moment Hermione drew him aside from the celebrations on the Burrow’s lawn. Why precisely he followed her up the stairs to Ron’s old room, he later couldn’t have said. 

They hovered for a long moment after Hermione had closed the door. 

“I’m not sure how to ask this,” she said, twirling a strand of hair nervously between her fingers. “I may have misinterpreted, so correct me if I’m wrong, but from the way you were talking earlier, it sounded like you’re planning on putting both of your names on the deed poll?” 

“Yes,” Harry said sharply. “Why?” 

“I just... Are you sure that’s entirely wise? I mean, you’ve only been together for six months, and it’s _your_ money and I—” 

“I’m _very sure_ that this is none of your business.” 

For several seconds, Hermione stood, her face twisted in a parody of indecision. Then, softly— “Harry, please. I’m not trying to tell you how you should live your life—” 

“Oh, really? Because it seems to me that’s exactly what you’re doing.” 

“Because I’m worried!” She made an aborted movement in his direction, then raked her fingers through her hair. They were shaking. “He’s not—Harry, I don’t think he’s who you believe he is. What you want him to be. I just want you to be careful, because I have a terrible feeling—” 

“Based on what?” 

“There’s something... off about him. There always has been; I just never noticed it properly in class because I was always so focused on my work. But the more I see him in person, the more—” 

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” 

“I know it sounds barmy but it’s really difficult to describe. It took me a while to work out. It’s his eyes, the way that he—have you never noticed how he just _stares_ at you? The way he gets all up in your personal space like he doesn’t—” 

“So he’s intense. He always has been; since when is that a bloody crime?" 

“It’s not! I’m not expressing myself very well but—when he smiles, it never reaches his eyes. It’s like there’s nothing there, underneath. Like he’s dead inside. I did some research and—” 

“And I’m fucking done with this conversation.” 

But Hermione caught him halfway to the door, clinging to his arms like a limpet. “Please, Harry! He’s lied to you at least once and I’m absolutely certain of that. He’s not exclusively gay; he went out with several girls at Hogwarts, and after I dug a little deeper into his background—” 

“And I went out with Ginny _and_ Cho, because, newsflash, it’s pretty confusing if everyone expects you to like girls!” He shoved her away. “I don’t fucking believe you. Who do you think you are, ‘digging into his background’, what could you possibly think gives you the right? Actually don’t answer that, I know already. You’re just that petty and jealous!” 

A tear rolled down Hermione’s check. “That doesn’t even make sense. Why would I be—” 

“And whilst we’re on the subject of people not being who they seem to be, have you looked in the fucking mirror, lately? The nerve you got, after agreeing with Ron that everything would just be peachy if he’d stayed dead!” 

All the colour instantly drained from Hermione’s face, as though Harry needed further confirmation. 

“I didn’t—we never—he’s completely twisted—” 

“Don’t lie to me! Actually, say whatever the fuck you want, but you can say it to an empty room in future. I’m done with you, and with Ron. I’m fucking done.” 

And he fled the room, the sound of a sob spilling over her lips cut off by the slam of the door. In hindsight, he doesn’t remember the details of how he raced past the lawn and towards the shady area of the garden where Severus had retreated to, earlier. He doesn’t remember if people sent him strange looks or even whether he took a detour to avoid them altogether. He only remembers the blinding rage, the despair, the way he threw himself into Severus’s arms and buried his face in Severus’s robes, sobbing his heart out, the way Severus held him and— 

A clattering noise outside his office pulls him sharply back to the present, to the piles of parchment lying before him, still unsigned. Something breaking? But Priscilla never so much as knocks over a cup; in fact, she steadies them every morning without fail, when Harry threatens to send them flying off his table mere moments after she’s brought in the coffee. 

Now that he’s listening closely, he can hear raised voices outside his door. Curiosity drives him out of his seat and towards it; it opens without a sound. 

“Sir, I’ve told you already, you can’t go in there! Mr Potter left express instructions not to—” 

“Is something the matter?” Harry says. 

“Mr Potter!” She spins around, smoothing down her robes. Her long blond hair is—unusually—dishevelled, her cheeks flushed. “This young gentleman insists on seeing you, no matter how many times I tell him that he can’t. Would you like me to make an exception?” 

She steps aside to reveal flaming red hair, just a shade lighter than the equally red Auror’s robes. At Ron’s feet lies the bronze plated name tag— _Priscilla Pignus, Secretary_ —which normally rests on her desk. Clearly they knocked it down in a tussle and that’s what Harry heard. 

“No,” Harry says. “I really don’t.” 

“Well, you heard the man,” says Priscilla, turning towards Ron. “Now if you could vacate—” 

“Harry, please,” Ron interrupts her. “I just want to talk to you.” 

“Well, I don’t. So go away.” 

“But I need to tell you—” 

“If you’re so desperate to tell me something which I’m not sure I want to hear, then send me a bloody letter. Don’t harass my secretary.” 

“I have! We have! Letter after bloody letter after bloody letter, and I haven’t the faintest if you’re even reading them or chucking them straight into the fire, but clearly we’re not getting an answer from you that way!” 

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Don’t be absurd. I haven’t got a single letter from either you or Hermione.” 

Ron’s face falls. “No, of course not,” he mutters. “Merlin, I hate it when she’s right.” 

“Right,” Harry says, much more loudly. “And I hate it when you’re lying. I don’t know why you’re doing it, but frankly I don’t care, so leave.” 

“Harry...” 

“Call security, if he doesn’t,” Harry says to Priscilla on his way back into the office. 

And the door shuts behind him. 

—- 

He knows Ron is lying. He does. But for some reason he can’t seem to shake the look on his face when Harry said he hadn’t received any letter, the raw edge to his eyes before he cast them down, the defeated slump of his shoulders. They keep going round and round in his mind and the more he thinks on it, the harder it becomes to focus on anything, so that by the time Severus picks him up from work as usual, not only has he got absolutely no work done but he’s also managed to get himself extremely upset. 

On the way out of the building, he tells Severus all about his unwanted visitor, how Ron refused to take no for an answer, how even Priscilla—who is a force to be reckoned with—couldn’t hold him off. Severus listens attentively, his hand warm where it curls around Harry’s waist as they walk, but even that comfort doesn’t completely unravel the tight knot at the base of Harry’s stomach. 

“I didn’t—I didn’t get any letters from Ron and Hermione recently, did I?” 

“No,” Severus says. “Not that I’m aware of. Why?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Ron was going on about how they sent me loads, is all. He was really insistent about it.” 

“Well,” Severus says, “I certainly haven’t received any on your behalf.” He pauses, just a fraction too long to signify anything but hesitance. “But if you believe his word over—” 

“Of course not!” Harry protests, grabbing Severus and pulling him around so they’re facing each other. “God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.” 

“I was going to say,”—Severus draws him into his arms—“that I’d understand. I have a deserved reputation for being a liar.” 

And he Apparates them straight outside the front door of their home. 

“Idiot,” Harry says as soon as he’s solid again. “That was far different, and you know it. You’ve never lied to me when you could help it, and I know that, too, really. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he repeats, with a sigh. 

“You’ve had a rough couple of days,” Severus says, smoothing down his ever-unruly hair. “Of course seeing them again was bound to... distress you. Perhaps,”—he smudges his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip, his lips tilting upwards in the bare hint of a smile—“it’s about time that you practised letting go again, hmm?” 

Harry’s heart flutters wildly. “Oh God, yes,” he breathes. “I mean, if you’d like to...” 

“I would love to,” Severus says and unlocks the front door. “As though you have to ask.” He steps through and as Harry follows him, it isn’t only the fact that he’s home that makes him feel lighter; it’s equally the warm tingle of anticipation. “You go on up and get ready,” Severus says. “I shall join you in a bit.” 

This is another thing Ron and Hermione could never understand, Harry thinks, as he takes the stairs to the mezzanine two at a time. They would twist it and warp it, say that it’s— 

No. He’s had enough of thinking of them for tonight; he won’t let them spoil this, too. He takes the quickest shower he can and then sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, bare as his bones in a pool of red-yellow-blue fractured moonlight. 

He doesn’t know how long he waits. It doesn’t matter; the waiting is part of this, only ripens the sweet burn low in his stomach. By the time he can hear footfalls on the stairs, he’s so hard he’s leaking against his stomach, near-trembling with arousal. 

“Eager tonight, are we?” Severus says, as he draws to a halt before him in a swish of robes. 

“Yes, sir,” Harry answers, not looking up from the floor. 

“Well, then.” Slow, lilting, amused. “I suppose you may.” 

Harry sighs and gratefully presses his face against the cool, smooth leather of Severus’s boot. 

Later, much later, when Harry is a sweat-soaked, shivering, satiated mess atop the duvet, he reaches over only for Severus to halt the sluggish movement of Harry’s hand with his own. 

“There’s no need,” he murmurs, even though he has not shed a single layer of his clothes. He draws Harry close. “This wasn’t about me. It was for you.” 

Harry presses a weak kiss to the rough weave of cloth right over Severus’s heart and hopes that it’s enough. Hopes, through the slowing thunder of his own pulse, that it’s enough to convey that he’s never felt like this with anyone—so safe, cherished, loved. 

Like he belongs. 

It’s his last conscious thought. 

—- 

For a good while, things return to normal. There are no more unexpected run-ins across shop floors, no more raised voices outside his office doors. In fact, Harry can’t hear anything beyond the four walls of the room from that day onward, not even the usual sounds of Priscilla bustling to and fro as she collects owls and files papers. 

She must have put up a silencing charm to avoid him getting disturbed in future. In all honesty, Harry is grateful for the consideration, though it takes him a bit to get used to the absolute silence. He’d rather not know if Ron—or Hermione—chooses to make another appearance, would prefer to remain oblivious altogether. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to push aside those dark, depressing thoughts and all that comes with them: the anger, the sadness, the acrid tang of betrayal. They’re always there at the back of his mind, but so long as he doesn’t see Ron and Hermione, he can keep them that way, until they are only fleeting, irrational interjections disrupting his peace. 

Because they are irrational when they do pop up, those thoughts. It’s not like Harry _misses_ his friends—ex-friends—it’s not like he has need of them. He sees plenty enough people during the day, spread across meetings, and then there are the endless galas and functions in the evenings and on weekends. He might be compelled to skip a few of the latter, just because he sometimes feels like he sees so many people that he’s mightily fed up with them, but Severus’s constant, calming presence sweetens the deal and makes them bearable, sometimes even enjoyable. 

It’s not like Harry is lonely. He doesn’t have the time to be lonely. Besides, how could he possibly be, when he returns every evening to someone who’s always interested in his day, who never yawns at his frustration with the convoluted politics at the office but listens and helps him problem-solve? 

It’s one of the many reasons Harry appreciates Severus. So no, he doesn’t feel lonely. 

Okay, fine. He does a bit when, several weeks after the Ron-and-Hermione-fiasco, Severus goes away for several days to attend a potions conference, but surely that much is normal. The way the bed seems too wide and the echoes of the rooms just a touch creepy—it’s simply the unfamiliarity; Harry has heard colleagues mention it before. 

And because Severus is brilliant and knows him so well, Harry’s not really alone: throughout the day they keep in touch via the bespelled two-way notepad which relays messages in real time. Harry can only hope that the soundproofing charm on his office goes both ways, because more than once during the day he bursts out into unrestrained laughter at a particularly sardonic comment on the conference proceedings. Letters on paper should not be able to convey a long-suffering tone, but somehow Severus manages to get them to. 

_Oh for heaven’s sake,_ he writes on the second day, just as Harry is packing up. _Stop blathering._

Harry smiles, and grabs a quill. _Not any better than yesterday, then?_

_A marginal improvement at best. I have high hopes for the dinner, however. Like a phoenix, it shall lift this preposterous exercise in so-called academia from its own ashes, and make it glow with shimmering plumes._

Harry pauses for a second. _Doesn’t that mean you’ll have to burn it down first?_

_The soundest idea I have heard all day. Are you done for the day?_

_Yeah,_ Harry writes. _Just leaving now._

On the way out of the office, he reflects on how much he loves this, that he is the only person to witness this side of Severus these days. Oh, Severus is still the quick-tongued conversationalist in public he’s always been, but since his rehabilitation and reintegration into the Wizarding World he is a lot more careful with how deep to cut verbally than he was at Hogwarts. A lot of it, Harry is sure, comes down to reduced stress levels, but he also fancies that Severus feeling safe, knowing he’s going to live, _wanting_ to live, plays an equally important part. 

It’s comforting, though, that not everything’s changed, comforting that Harry is allowed to keep that part of him. Plus, it makes Severus’s sharp dissections of the more pompous Ministry officials on their way home from a ball that much more hilarious. 

He’s so lost in his thoughts he barely notices his surroundings as he heads out the Ministry’s back entrance—always less busy than the front— and towards his usual Apparition point. He’s running completely on autopilot, so he doesn’t notice it until it’s too late, until the red jet of light catches his vision from the very corner of his eye. 

Then all goes dark. 

—- 

His first conscious thought is that Severus is going to be _furious_ with him if Harry manages to get himself killed whilst he’s away. 

He blinks into the darkness. It’s not nearly as absolute as it first seemed, dull streetlight streaming through the space beside the pillar he’s resting against. It still takes his eyes too long to adjust to the gloom; he needs to get his bearings and fast, before his captors can— 

“You!” he says, and struggles to move, but his muscles feel frozen from the neck down, won’t obey his commands. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Let me go!” 

Across from him, Hermione opens her mouth, then falters. A soft murmur issues from behind her, and as a white globe of light rises into the air, Harry can see Ron, too, standing several steps back and looking uncertain. “Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea...” 

Hermione shakes her head. “No,” she says, eyes not moving from Harry. “We agreed. It’s the only way.” 

“You should listen to him,” Harry snaps. “Or is that what Aurors and Unspeakables do, these days? Kidnap innocent people?” 

“We’re not kidnapping—” 

“Oh really? Could’ve fooled me! Way I remember it, I was minding my own business, until you _stunned_ me from out of nowhere to drag me off to—” 

He glances around himself, at bare concrete floors and walls, at the plastic sheeting swaying behind them in the breeze. He still doesn’t have a clue where he is. 

“You’re in one of the new office building sites not far from where you last were,” Hermione says. “And I promise, we _will_ let you go. After we’ve spoken to you.” 

“That’s tremendously reassuring to hear when one is in a _full body bind_.” 

Hermione’s face twists. “I know,” she says, voice low. She takes a step closer, kneeling before him. “Harry, please...” 

He bares his teeth in a snarl. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare _Harry_ me.” 

Her breath hitches. In the dim light, the shadows under her eyes are so pronounced they appear more as sockets than eyes. 

“We get why you’re angry,” Ron interjects. “I’d be raving, if I was you, but we wouldn’t have done this if we could’ve have thought of any other way to speak to you.” 

“I told you last time, send me a bloody letter!” 

“Right,” Hermione says, squaring her shoulders. “Like the ones we’ve been sending you for months now?” 

“And I told him that, too, that I didn’t get a single one! I get even less why you’re lying about—” 

“We’re not. Here,”—she rummages in her bag, withdrawing a pile of small papers—“postage receipts. I didn’t think of getting them until you and Ron spoke, but there’s plenty anyway. Here and here, and here and... just see for yourself.” 

Harry stares at the procession of paper slips lifted before him, too many to count in such rapid succession. It’s undeniable, though: they all bear the addressee as ‘Harry J Potter’. 

“Maybe the owls got lost.” 

“Owls don’t get lost! Remember how they found Sirius even when he was still in hiding? Hell, I’ll give you one getting lost, or even five, but fifty?” 

“And why the fuck would Severus lie to me about you not getting any letters?” 

Hermione’s posture relaxes, then tenses. “You tell me. Why would he?” 

Harry doesn’t like how long it takes him to think of the obvious solution. He doesn’t like it one bit, because it means she’s successful at trying to confuse him. “He probably didn’t want me to get upset by more of your crap. Can you blame him? You have no idea what a mess I’ve been in because of _you_ , because you somehow expect me to glance over the fact that you discussed wanting him _dead_ and don’t think that’s deserving of an apology!” 

“About that. I’m glad you’ve brought it up, actually, because it’s one of the things we really needed to talk to you about.” 

“Go on, then, have at it.” He almost chokes on the bitter laugh. “I don’t seem to be going anywhere, anytime fast. Captive audience, aren’t I?” 

Hermione sighs. “I don’t know what he told you, but—” 

“That Ron said he wished he’d never survived. And that you agreed, and said it would be easier on me when I finally decided to leave him.” 

He’s fully prepared for them to deny it. But somehow he’s not prepared for what Ron says next, in slow, measured tones— “What I actually said was ‘If I didn’t know it was out and out wrong, I’d almost wish he’d never survived. God, that’s a horrible thing to say. I didn’t mean that.’” 

“And what I said,” Hermione continues, “was ‘No, it’s... you’re right, it’s a horrible thing to even think. I just hope we’re wrong, that I’ve got it all wrong somehow. Because if what my gut’s telling me is actually right, then that really would have been easier on Harry than when he finally decides to leave him.’” She shakes her head. “Slight difference, big impact on meaning, don’t you think?” 

Harry flounders. He was prepared for out and out denial, but this halfway-house towards culpability makes no sense. If they’re lying, why give him any ammunition at all? 

“If you don’t believe me,” Hermione says, “I have a Pensieve right here.” And she withdraws a small stone basin from her bag, enlarging it with a flick of her wand. “See for yourself.” 

No. No. This cannot, it can’t be— “I don’t need to see whatever fabrication you’ve prepared! Besides, say I do believe you, there’s still... there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. He misheard you; it wouldn’t have taken much based on what you’ve told me,” —yes, that must be it— “as a matter of fact that was why he _held off_ from telling me for ages, because he was worried he had, and not that what you did say wasn’t still way out of line, but if there’s been some horrible misunderstanding—” 

“Then why did he tell you not to talk to us so we could sort it out?” 

“What?” Harry says. “I... I never said he...” 

There’s something bright shining in Hermione’s eyes. “But he did, didn’t he? And I’m sure he had an excellent reason. Probably because he was just too upset?” 

“He was!” Harry protests, before he remembers that Severus didn’t want him to share that with them. Oh well, damage done; he might as well go all in. “What, like you would want to bare your throat to someone after you thought you’d heard them talk about you like that?” 

“I sure as hell,” cuts in Ron, who’s been uncharacteristically silent again, “wouldn’t drop a bombshell like that on Hermione and then expect her not to do something about it. Because I know it’s not in her nature. Shouldn’t he know by now that it’s not in yours, either?” 

“He does. He just also knows that I can be trusted to keep a confidence!” 

“I...” says Ron. And then— “Okay, no, this is way beyond me.” 

He takes a step back. Harry doesn’t miss his hands balling into fists. 

“And what the fuck do you mean by that?” 

“He means,” Hermione says, “that Snape is brilliant at this. I know you believe he was genuinely distressed. But the fact is, he wasn’t—” 

“Right. Because I can’t tell when the person I’m closest to, whom I _love_ , by the way, is—” 

“Because he’s just that good at manipulation! I don’t blame you, Harry; I couldn’t possibly because it took me far too long to work it out, and I wasn’t absolutely sure until...” 

“Until what?” 

“Until the day you confronted me, at the Burrow. You didn’t give me a chance to explain, and I was so unprepared I couldn’t think for a moment, but then I followed you down to the garden, and then I saw—” 

“You saw him comforting me, and _that_ convinced you?” 

Hermione’s face is a rictus of pain. “I saw him hug you. And then, _whilst you were sobbing into his robes_ I saw him smile.” 

One simple word; a punch to the gut. 

“And before you say anything else; it wasn’t an awkward smile. It wasn’t a sympathetic smile. It was a satisfied smile. Almost like he was gleeful. And then I knew. That he’d planned it, all of it, and that I’d played right into his hands. That I’d been right all along. That he’s _dangerous_ , Harry. That he’s a—” 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Harry yells, right over her voice. He squeezes his eyes shut. “You’re deranged! You’re fucking mental! I can’t believe that you hate him that much!” 

“The Pensieve is right here,” Hermione says softly. 

Harry snaps his eyes open to glare at her. “Yeah, and like you’re not clever enough to rig it. Fuck that. Are we done, now? Am I allowed to make up my own mind, given that you seem so _concerned_ it’s being twisted?” 

Hermione glances up at Ron. He shrugs, but judging by the way he’s biting his lip hard enough to turn it white, he’s far from indifferent. 

Harry just wants it all over. This nightmare, this web of confusion and lies—because _somebody_ is lying. None of it makes any sense. 

“If you won’t believe me,” Hermione says, “then ask him yourself. Here,” —and she rummages in her bag once again, this time pulling out a small crystal vial— “this is a brand new experimental variant of Veritaserum. Nobody knows about it yet; I nicked it from work. It’s undetectable and doesn’t cause any of the usual side effects, and it doesn’t have an antidote, at least not yet. Three drops as normal, and he won’t be able to utter a single lie—he’ll only be able to speak the truth, even if you don’t ask him any questions. But for heaven’s sake, give it to him in a public location.” 

Harry stares at it. One thing he knows for certain: both Hermione and Ron have admitted to thoughts of wanting Severus dead. Both of them—if they’re to be believed—are convinced that he’s dangerous. 

Maybe nobody’s lying, after all. Maybe Hermione misinterpreted things in a fit of emotion. Maybe the war or her job’s made her paranoid. 

But they both believe Severus is dangerous. They believed Voldemort dangerous; Voldemort is dead. 

“How do I know it’s not poison?” he says. 

“Harry, this is me! Me, Hermione! The same girl who went to Hogwarts with you, the same girl who fought with you in every last one of your battles! You know me; do you really believe I’d ask you to _poison_ your lover?” 

What do Unspeakables do, anyway? Nobody knows. Nobody. Harry knows what Severus does; he’s seen the lab, seen the complicated spellcrafting sketches. 

And what is _up_ with Ron being so silent? He never used to be, never used to let Hermione take the lead in this extreme a way. 

“I’m not sure I know you at all,” he says. 

Hermione makes a high-pitched noise of frustration, tearing at her hair, drawing a shaky breath. In the next instant, she’s uncapped the vial and is tipping four drops onto her outstretched tongue. 

“I love you, Harry,” she says, and a tear rolls down her cheek, then another. “I am so, so scared for you. I—we—we only want what’s best for you.” 

“To be without him, you mean.” 

“Yes! Yes, for heaven’s sake, yes. We’ll be here for you. You’re not alone, we can _help_ you, we can—” 

“Let me go,” Harry says. “Now.” 

Her shoulders slump. But she does release him, slipping the vial into the pocket of his robes as his limbs finally unfreeze. “Harry...” 

Harry runs. On legs which feel like liquid, he stumbles to his feet and runs from the bare bones of the building without a glance back, down the cold, echoing skeleton stairs, through the shroud of plastic sheeting. He can’t think, can’t feel, can’t comprehend anything beyond the need to get away, to be safe, to be home. It’s sheer dumb luck that he doesn’t splinch himself into pieces on his way, but he manages somehow and then the door slams shut behind him, leaving him shaking and trembling, alone in the cavernous tomb of a room. 

He slides to the floor and breathes, breathes, breathes. He’s still trying to breathe beyond fast, shallow pants when a sharp buzzing sound jolts him out of the blanket of confusion; it takes several seconds longer to understand where it’s coming from. 

He draws out the notepad. There have been three new messages since he last checked it. 

_Dinner did not improve matters, but I succeeded at not burning the table to hell and damnation. How was yours?_ , reads the first. 

_Harry?_ , the second. 

And the one which arrived mere moments ago— _Harry? Are you all right?_

He scrabbles for ink and quill, and then pauses, hand poised above paper. It’s still shaking and he knows instinctively that he could stop it like that. He could tell Severus how Hermione and Ron kidnapped him, how they’ve utterly gone and lost it, gone round the bend. Severus would drop everything for him, would come home and he’d soothe him as he always does; he’d _make_ it okay, and why is he even debating this? 

He steadies his hand with the other, and then, without knowing quite why, writes— _Sorry. Got caught up reading some paperwork, didn’t see your messages until now. So dinner’s been uneventful, but I’m good._

The reply is almost immediate— _Don’t ever scare me like that again. Please._

_I won’t, promise. Just a long day at the office, you know? I think I’ll head off to bed._

_You do that. Sleep tight, and I’ll see you tomorrow._

_You, too,_ Harry writes. _Love you._

_And I you_. 

The words blur before his eyes. _And I you._ It’s the only way Severus has ever said it, in response to Harry. _And I you. You know I do, too. That makes both of us, then._

Up to now, Harry always assumed it was because he found the words hard to articulate, fearing the ever-present spectre of rejection, but what if it’s because they’re actually anathema to him? Then again, if he is lying—if he _were_ lying—wouldn’t it be simpler to say them, just another lie among many? Wouldn’t it be easier to shower Harry with _I love you_ s to lull him into a false sense of security? Why bother withholding them, if they truly lack any meaning? 

He can’t believe he’s even questioning this. But something in Hermione’s words or her face, maybe her eyes, has cut straight into him, lodging in the marrow of his bones like a hook that refuses to come loose. 

He feels nauseous. Unmoored. Like his centre has been torn out, replaced with dizzying doubt. Who is he to believe? Is he making excuses for Severus, too quick to leap to his defence out of fear that he may have been... 

What? Wrong? Harry knows he’s been wrong before, but he likes to think that he’s learned from his experiences, that he’s grown. That he still does, for that matter. He’s not opposed to considering other people’s points of view—in fact, his ability to do precisely that has been an immense asset in his job thus far. So it definitely can’t be that. 

And could he possibly be _that_ poor a judge of character? He lived with the Dursleys for eleven years, and whilst he believed their lies as long as he _couldn’t_ know any better, the moment he was presented with the truth he _did_ realise how fucked up they are. He saw the Death Eaters, saw Voldemort for what they were. If he was so easily led, would he not have chosen Tom Riddle over Ginny, down in the Chamber? Were his instincts not spot on, all the way through the mess of the war? How else would he have made it to the final battle, let alone through it? 

Hermione says Severus is dangerous, but where is the evidence for that? Nobody’s been hurt. No strange, unexplained accidents follow him where he goes. He’s not raised his voice to Harry in anger, not once. He’s not hit him, except for—but that doesn’t count, can’t count, because Harry asked for that explicitly, knowing that if he said the word Severus would stop. What happens between them in bed is separate from the rest of their lives, and besides it’s not as if that’s the only way they have sex. It’s an infrequent thing, too infrequent for Harry, at times. 

It’s separate. And outside of those moments when Severus helps him to let go, helps him regain his balance, he treats Harry gently. With kindness. With respect. He may have difficulty saying the words, but there’s constant gestures to show him he’s loved: the flowers, the specially brewed potion to help him with nightmares, the carefully prepared dinners. 

It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to, in exchange for a place to live and access to money which Harry couldn’t care less about. And if Severus were _dangerous_ , would those truly be enough? Voldemort _was_ dangerous, and the idea of him settling for a quietly domestic life is so ridiculous that Harry barks out a laugh. 

It dies on his lips, chased away by the echo of Hermione saying _smile_. The chill to her voice, as though she’d been plunged into a frigid pool, complete with Horcrux. A satisfied smile, a gleeful smile. Voldemort used to smile just like she described and Harry knows that she’s seen him do so, so what if she recognised... 

He rakes a hand through his hair and gets up, walks a few feet, turns, then steps back. She sounded so confident, confident enough to offer the memory up for inspection. Pensieve memories are notoriously difficult to fake, even Dumbledore acknowledged that. Then again, Hermione is, has always been, the cleverest witch in this decade, this century; if anyone could, if anyone... 

He pulls the glass vial from his robes, staring at it. She drank it. She drank it, so she couldn’t have been lying, right? Unless it isn’t Veritaserum, is really poison after all, and she took the antidote ahead of time, but then why did she seem so agitated, so full of frustration? Her distress looked so real, but so did Severus’s, and they can’t both be— someone has to be faking, right? It can’t be a misunderstanding, because if it is then that means that Severus did lie about the letters when Harry asked about them, which means that he _has_ lied, which means that Hermione is right, unless she lied about the postage receipts, which would be easy enough to fake, and Harry never got a great look at them, did he? 

She was never that great at faking it whilst at school, though, always so obsessed with following the rules and _that_ is the Hermione he knows, the one who— 

The one who Confounded McLaggen during Ron’s Quidditch tryouts. The one who spun a vivid tale out of nowhere during their fifth year, with such a straight face that Umbridge fell for it hook, line and sinker. The one who chose to become an Unspeakable, for reasons she never revealed. A woman with whom Harry hasn’t exchanged anything but superficialities for well over a year. 

That Hermione. And Severus, who was a spy. 

How the fuck is he meant to decide? But he has to, he has to, because how else is he supposed to look Severus in the eye when he returns and act like nothing is wrong? He’s rubbish at pretending unless he has a plan, and even then it’s tough going. He was never able to keep Ron and Hermione out of things at Hogwarts because of it, and he’s been equally bad at keeping up a front with Severus when work gets to him, and this— This is something else. This is cataclysmic, either way, and he needs to work it the fuck out. Now. 

He stays up all night, trying to. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, pacing up and down the wide expanse of the living room until he’s dizzy with it. The more he thinks on it, though, the more his thoughts seem to tie themselves into knots; every time he feels like he has come to a conclusion, he runs into another wall—why Severus would do this to him, what reasons Hermione could possibly have—and he’s back at square one. By the time his exhausted body forces him to sit down on the sofa, the sun has risen high outside the windows, dancing rainbows of light reflecting off the small crystal vial he still holds in his hands. 

He stares at it, watching it blur into an explosion of colour. Nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing. 

—- 

He comes to with a start. The room around him is dark, except where the full moon spills through the windows, casting sharp angles onto the floor and walls like glowing, living spikes. 

Fuck. Fuck! Stupid, so stupid to fall asleep when he should have—what’s the time? Severus could be back any minute now and he hasn’t even— 

Something clatters to the floor as he leaps off the sofa. The vial. 

He grabs it with his left hand, even as he performs a quick _Tempus_ charm with the right. Quarter to eight, and Severus is due back at eight. He’s never late, never early, always precise with his time. Blessedly, there have been no new messages on the notepad. 

Harry tears up the stairs. Fifteen minutes doesn’t give him long enough for a shower, but at least enough for a change of clothes. He sheds his work robes, slipping into the faded jeans and the soft, green jumper he likes to wear around the house; the vial goes into the pocket, cushioned by scraps of paper and Every-Flavour Beans. Twenty seconds in the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face and his reflection stares back at him as he puts on his glasses, wide-eyed and gaunt, hollowed like pomegranates scraped clean of their seeds. 

Normal, he has to act normal. If only he could recall what normal is supposed to be. 

That’s it: tea. Normal is offering Severus tea. He races back down the stairs and into the kitchenette, the wall sconces blooming alight with a muttered spell. Willing his hands not to shake, he sets the water to boil and measures leaves into a pot, one scoop, two and three. 

The vial rests like a stone in his pocket as he watches the tea brew. Poison. Veritaserum. Who knows? 

He should have tested the damn stuff. Why didn’t he think of that earlier? 

Five minutes to go. He pours fragrant tea into delicate china, and stares at the cup. 

There could be a reasonable explanation. Hermione is freaking herself out over nothing, assuming the worst because of bad past experiences. Severus fucked up, and lied about the letters to protect Harry, to spare him the pain. Or because he’s scared to lose him, so scared that he made a dreadful mistake. Maybe he even regrets it, just as Harry would regret forcing the truth from him by underhanded means. Nobody’s perfect. 

Two minutes. The vial is in his hand, burning bright against his palm. Harry doesn’t know how it got there. 

_For heaven’s sake_ , Hermione’s voice whispers through the glass, _in a public location._

But Harry can’t. A whole weekend of pretending, and how is he meant to bear it, how could he possibly... 

He _has_ to know. 

One minute, and the potion drips into the tea, clear as the night. The moment he’s stuffed the vial back into his pocket, the door opens. 

“Hello,” Severus says, and covers the distance between in such swift strides that Harry can do little more than lift his lips in a smile before he’s wrapped up in Severus’s arms, enfolded by wide, billowing robes. 

They smell warm, of woodsmoke and cedar. Even now, the scent is so familiar it is a comforting one, slowing the wild gallop of Harry’s heart. He presses his cheek against Severus’s shoulder. “I missed you,” he murmurs, because that is normal. And also true. 

Severus’s lips brush his temple, as he withdraws. “I was only gone for a few days,” he teases gently, then looks Harry over. “You seem... tired.” 

“Didn’t sleep well,” Harry murmurs, glancing down to the floor. “Nightmares.” 

He hopes he doesn’t come across as evasive. He always acts a bit skittish when it comes to the nightmares, no matter how desperately he wants to discuss them, so this, too, should look normal. 

“Forgot the Potion?” Soft tone, not a hint of judgement behind it. “Oh, you made me tea. Thank you, that is exactly what I needed.” 

Harry glances up sharply at the clinking of the saucer being moved, but Severus is already halfway to the sofa. “Come sit down with me, and you can tell me all about it whilst I have this. If that would help.” 

And he sits down and lifts the cup to his lips. 

_No_ , Harry wants to shout, suddenly deathly afraid that he’s screwed it all up, _don’t drink it!_. But the words stick in his throat, even as he watches Severus’s work, watches him swallow and... 

Nothing. His heart stops, then starts. Not poison, after all; Hermione would never be stupid enough to give something slow-acting to a Potions Master. 

“Harry?” 

“Sorry,” Harry says, and takes several steps closer. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, he knows it. There has to be. “Still kind of out of it. I will tell you all about it, but first—” 

His heart’s beating so loudly he can feel it in his gut. So Severus fucked up. So did Harry, mere seconds ago. 

“About those letters from Ron and Hermione. Are you sure I didn’t get any?” 

“Of _course_ you had letters,” Severus says. “I burnt them all.” 

For a long, suspended second Harry can’t breathe. Severus is staring at him, but he doesn’t look guilty, looks blank, face wiped clean. His eyes flick to the cup, back to Harry, and then he’s on his feet. 

“What did you put in this? What did you _give_ me?” 

“I...” Harry says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— You burnt them because you didn’t want them to upset me, right? Right?” 

“Don’t be pathetic,” Severus snarls. “As if I give a rat’s arse about your precious _feelings_. I burnt them because they were dangerous. _What did you give me?_ ” 

And he advances. Harry staggers backwards, but Severus is faster, moves sharp as a whip until he has Harry cornered. Another step back and Harry stumbles, feet colliding with wood, sending him sprawling against the stairs, caught between the wall and the railing. 

“Answer me! I know it isn’t Veritaserum, because I take the antidote every day, without fail and even if I didn’t, I could master it in a heartbeat! And yet, somehow, I can no longer lie! How dare you, how dare you do this to me, who do you think you are, to poison _me_? What kind of _filth_ have you given me?” 

And the cup goes flying, shattering against the far wall. Harry flinches, can’t think, can only stare at Severus’s face, twisted, demented with rage, and then he can’t even stare anymore, because in the next second his mind is sliced open, the memories of the past three days unspooling like a vortex before his eyes. 

He’s shaking by the time Severus withdraws. His stomach coils like he might throw up, and through the bile tears threaten to rise. 

“Ah,” Severus says. “I see. The Great Granger to the rescue, hmm? Except that if she had an ounce of brain residing in her skull, she would have kept you once she had got her hands on you.” He snorts. “She genuinely thought that _you_ possessed enough sense to stay safe? Moronic.” 

This is all some sort of horrible dream, some spectacularly twisted nightmare. Any minute now, Harry will wake up and Severus will hug him, and it’ll all be okay. 

But he doesn’t. He’s still here, stairs digging into his back, Severus sneering down at him. “Cat got your tongue, _Potter_?” 

“N-no!” Harry stammers, breath hitching in his chest. “Don’t—don’t call me that, that isn’t—this isn’t you! You would never, you couldn’t—” And then it comes to him, all in a rush, and fuck, this is all _his_ fault— “It’s that potion she made me give you, it’s, it’s _done_ this to you, I don’t know how, but I’ll find out and I’ll fix it, Severus, please, just let me...” 

For a beat, incredulity chases over Severus’s features. Then he laughs. It is a cold, harsh sound, rebounding off the chapel’s walls like shards of ice. “Oh, but this is beautiful. I knew I had you well-trained, but it seems this time I’ve outdone even myself. Tell me, Potter,”—mocking, bending down to trail the tip of his wand over Harry’s cheek—“do I _love_ you?” 

“Yes!” Harry gasps, even as his hand fumbles for his back-pocket, where he usually keeps his wand. It comes up empty. 

“Don’t bother; you left it in the kitchen,” Severus says, withdrawing. Harry promptly scrabbles up a couple of stairs, but Severus follows, smooth, flowing steps in counterpoint to Harry’s jerky movements. “Thank you for that, by the way. You do always make it remarkably easy, and I hear it is only good manners to show appreciation for that. Although, truth be told, it does make it a little boring at times, you know? You’re just so... _predictable_.” 

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. He’s crying now, blinded by tears, can’t help it, can’t stop the flow. “No, this isn’t—this doesn’t make sense! This can’t be you, if it was then how, why...” 

“Yes? Oh do go on, Potter. Please tell me more about _me_. I’m riveted.” 

For long seconds, Harry can’t speak for the sobs which tear him apart. Then, gasping— “You loved my Mum! You turned your back on Voldemort for her, I saw it, I saw it, and why _else_ would you have left? Why risk your life?” 

“Ah,” Severus says, and sighs. “Your mother. My one and only mistake.” He shakes his head, and there is what Harry always used to think his bashful smile. “I did want to have her, I suppose. She was positively teeming with magic, so bright. She would have made a lovely accessory. But unfortunately she wasn’t half as gullible as you, and I was still,” —he swirls his wand in the air— “working out the kinks, so to speak. Although, really, my act of contrition was spectacular, so... No, let’s face it. Your mother was just a bitch.” 

Hermione was right. It’s like there’s nothing, nothing behind his eyes. 

“Don’t get me wrong, she did serve her purpose. After all, what better reason to present Dumbledore with for crossing sides than _true love_? A few tears, a bit of clawing at the ground and protesting that _I couldn’t bear it_ , and he fell for it like a charm. Just as you did.” He smiles. “Dumbledore, hah. Him and the _Dark Lord_ —it was almost too easy. One narcissist with delusions of saving the world for the light, another so wrapped up in himself he failed to spot _one of his own_ right under his nose, amongst his followers. But _I_ knew, of course. From the get go. I knew that him and me, we were the same, in a way that Dumbledore could never be. I just covered it better. Oh, are we doing a little dance now?” This last in response to Harry inching up another stair, and another, Severus following suit. “Are _you_ finally catching on, too? I do believe that what you’re experiencing right now, Potter, is called fear. I hear it’s... unpleasant.” 

Harry shakes his head, without knowing which one of those he’s denying. The tears have stalled, smothered by a blanket of shock, but his heart is still pumping, throbbing, bursting inside his ribcage. “Was that why you left, then?” he hears himself say, as if from afar. “Because you were scared he was more powerful than you?” 

Severus laughs. “Really, Potter? Calling me a coward is a tad behind the times, don’t you think? But I forget, you are perpetually stuck in sixth year. I left,”—another step up—“because I have _principles_. Ambition’s all well and good, but he chose to give _them_ free reign in exchange, and what kind of world would I have ended up in, if I’d stayed? With them swarming all over the place like filthy maggots, slashing and burning and cutting to satisfy their baser desires, creating a mess? They were nothing but animals. _Disgusting_. Any subtlety would have been lost. Power isn’t about slaughter, about brute force, it’s a game of chess. The true joy lies in the experiment, a string pulled here, a button pushed there, then sit back and watch them dance—yes, just like that,” (as Harry squirms up another stair) “watch them self-destruct. It requires a certain flair, a certain panache which Voldemort never possessed.” 

“You’re mad,” Harry whispers. He’s almost at the top of the stairs, now, but what bloody use is that? There’s nowhere to run to. 

Severus smiles. “Remind me to thank your little friend for giving you that potion,” he says. “It’s been rather delightful to be able to speak my mind for a change. You have no idea how aggravating listening to your constant whinging and whining has been, how thoroughly _sick_ I’ve become of your snivelling, clinging—” 

Harry kicks him. Or he tries to, anyway, but it goes spectacularly wrong, because in the next heartbeat he’s flat on his back at the foot of their bed, ears ringing from the impact of his head to the stone floor. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Severus says, resting his boot heavy over Harry’s windpipe. “None of that.” 

“What,” Harry wheezes, and suddenly he’s full of it, full of bright, hot fury. “Thought you said you wanted a challenge!” 

“That wasn’t a challenge. That was pathetic attempt to get me to dirty my hands.” He practically spits the words, then angles the tip of his boot, tipping Harry’s chin up, in a straight line with his wand. “You know, I believe I have just about had enough of you.” 

Harry claws at his leg, and then he doesn’t, muscles turned to liquid with a lazy flick of Severus’s hand. 

“Don’t worry,” Severus says, sounding almost bored. “You’ll live to whine another day. Sadly. You still have your use, after all.” 

“Why?” The tears are back, alongside the anger and fear, one roiling wave of desperation. “Why me? What did I _do_ , what do you want from me? The house? My money?” 

“As if I’d put up with you for something that insignificant. You still haven’t worked it out, then? My, I always knew you were slow, but...” 

And belatedly, the final puzzle piece slips into place. 

“Oh God,” Harry breathes. 

Severus tilts his head, gazing down at him. A sharp, jagged spill of moonlight cuts his face into two, drenched blood-red by the stained glass. Even his teeth gleam crimson, when he smiles. Satisfied. Gleeful. Like he’s savouring the moment. 

“There is no God, Potter,” he drawls. And then, with a nonchalant shrug— “Well. There is _me_.” 

—- 

He wakes to a soft brush of lips over his own. 

“Hello,” Severus murmurs against his mouth. “Got tired waiting for me?” 

Harry blinks, bleary-eyed and confused. How did he get into bed? He’s still wearing his clothes so he can’t have been—oh yes. He got frustrated staring at a blank page whilst trying to write that damn speech, so he went to rest for a bit, hoping it would work it’ way through if he shut his eyes for a few minutes— 

“Fuck,” he says. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I need to get back to the speech!” 

Severus smiles. “And I missed you, too.” 

Bugger it all. “I’m sorry,” Harry says, and kisses Severus’s neck in apology. “I didn’t mean—you know I missed you, too. I’m so glad you’re back.” And he kisses him properly, if still a bit clumsy with sleep. “When did you get home?” 

“Just now,” Severus says, smoothing his fingers through Harry’s hair. “The speech has been giving you trouble, then?” 

“Yeah. I’ve been putting it off all bloody week, frankly, but I really need to get it done this weekend so I should at least have a start on it before it’s Sunday. It’s not Sunday yet, is it?” 

“It’s not Sunday yet,” Severus reassures. 

Harry sighs. “I’m really, _really_ sorry, this isn’t fair on you. If it were up to me, I’d drag you straight into bed, but...” 

“It’s fine. Honestly. I understand that you have commitments which must take precedence. Perhaps... if you would like, I could help you with it?” 

“You shouldn’t have to. Just because my time-keeping is rubbish—” 

“I assure you, my motives are entirely selfish. If tweaking a sentence here or there means I can drag you back to bed more quickly...” 

Harry smiles wryly. “More like building the whole thing from the ground up,” he says. “But yeah, if you don’t mind that’d be brilliant.” 

“I don’t mind at all. You go down, I’ll be with you in a few minutes; I want to put a couple of things away, first.” 

“Thank you.” Harry limits himself to a quick peck, lest he be tempted, and forces himself out of bed. Halfway towards the stairs, he turns. “Remind me why I’m doing this again?” 

Severus arches an eyebrow. “What, running for Minister? Because you believe in a better world, one where every individual truly gets what they deserve.” 

“Right,” Harry says. “I knew there was a good reason. Just wish it wasn’t such hard bloody work.” 

—- 

Severus watches him go, listening until the soft scuff of chair legs confirms that Potter—no, Harry; best not to get sloppy after that little interlude—is firmly ensconced in the vestry which is his study. But one benefit of the open layout of the chapel: sound travels so well that it’s terribly easy to track Harry’s movements. 

Harry could track him just as easily, but Severus knows he would not think of it, presents no real risk. After all, Harry was bred for this: born into chaos, raised in neglect and abuse, carefully moulded into the perfect pawn by Dumbledore. He was ripe for the taking, by the time Severus got to him. 

He doesn’t bother to close the door to the turret behind him, just as he doesn’t bother to hide the diary he draws from the shelf with anything so mundane as a notice-me-not charm. It hides in plain sight, one of the few texts Harry frequently withdraws to look at. It gives Severus no small amount of pleasure to watch him curl up on the sofa with the leather-bound volume, voraciously drinking down the love sonnets that are all he sees. 

The spell unravels under the complex movements of his wand, wiping the pages clean of fabrication. Although the book is several hundred pages long, it is still mostly blank, pristine; Severus is only at the beginning of this particular story. Only significant points are worthy of an entry; one must be economical with strategies committed to paper as much as with truth. 

Today, however, seems deserving of one. He dips his quill into the inkwell, withdrawing it dripping scarlet-red. 

_Advance plans to eliminate Granger_ , he writes. _She is a menace._

Now _there_ is a challenge. Maybe. For a little while. 


End file.
